Black Hurricane

Two days later, I received ten bouquets of heart-shaped flower arrangements.They are beautiful and I recognized them right away.It took me a while to remember their names, but even without the message, I knew they were from Dean.I also know what they mean.

These little blue daisies, so blue that they are almost purple, are piled up in my apartment.I can't help it.Even better, Benji and Eric showed up as soon as I received the flowers.Eric did his best to show disdain for the act, but he kept looking at the flowers with envy in his eyes.I did my best to distract myself by drawing, but it was hard not to see the flowers that once clustered behind the old factory again.In fact, all I can remember of my first sex with Dean is the blue-green hue of these little flowers and their smell, and of course, the pain.

Note ①: Felicia is written in English, and it can also be regarded as a female name.

"We can throw it away for you if you want," Eric said.He placed a heart-shaped bouquet on top of my small TV, trying to hold it so it wouldn't fall over.

"It's okay." I flicked my fingers to brush the thought away.I don't know why, but I just feel that I have to act nonchalantly, and throwing these flowers will destroy the calmness.I can't let Dean affect me.

"Interesting," said Benji, who was sitting on the couch reading a text message. "I always thought 'Farewell to Felicia' was a song about girls."

I looked up from the easel.The title of the song was mentioned by Dean in that interview.I thought he made it up. "You mean there really is a song with that name?"

Eric sat down and sighed deeply. "Yeah. I looked up the lyrics to all the songs he mentioned. Seriously, Jess. You should really check it out. I mean, those songs are mostly hard rock, but the words and the subtext… …It’s amazing, the romance is dead, it’s heartbreaking.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to block the hissing throbbing pain in my chest.Even so, even if these songs exist, it doesn't mean he wrote them for me.Well, maybe only one, because "Felicia" contains too many coincidences.

"And those Fanta sodas," Benji said, after Eric, as if they'd already discussed it—not surprising. "'Tangerine Kiss'? So cute."

"Eight poles can't be hit." I accidentally drew a stroke up on the canvas instead of down, which made the woman in the painting look like she was playing with a mysterious bump under her skirt.

"Well, I don't mean to glorify what happened in the past," Eric continued, "Maybe he is really sorry for everything in the past. I mean, yes, he was an asshole before, but he may change now Yes. What do you say?"

I shook my head and he immediately changed the subject.I'm grateful he didn't go on, whether he was right or not.I really don't want to hear it right now.I don't want to in the future.Even if Dean remembers orange Fanta and flowers.That's not a big deal either.

I picked up a paintbrush and painted the skirt blue.The blue-purple kind.Fuck it.He got into my painting again.

I grab my skateboard and head to work early.Today was not my shift, but Jordan was sick and asked for leave.That's right, it's probably because I'm hungover and can't get up.Monday nights are usually pretty uneventful with only the regulars.I told Kal-El he didn't have to follow me, but he came anyway.To my surprise, there was no trace of "Black Hurricane" or their flesh and blood.Probably because every news station in the city, as well as fans, are squatting at the bar, hoping for another show.I heard it was crazy busy here last night.Hell, the paparazzi seem to be going after the employees here too.I was going to go skateboarding yesterday, but the crazy photographers and the strange looks people on the street were giving me made me dismiss it.

It was very lively at the beginning tonight, but as "Black Hurricane" never showed up, the bar quickly fell silent.It was a relief to me not to have Dean's eyes to follow, and I wondered for a moment if he had given up, but judging by the way he kept giving presents, he certainly wasn't.

I had just put the last glass back when Wilder finished counting.He handed me the salary, and wrote the figure in his little black book.Suddenly, an idea came out of my head.

"Hey Wilder, did anyone ask you where I live?"

Wilder looked up, brow wrinkled when I asked the question.I put my salary in the back pocket of my jeans.

"Oh yes, the singer asked. McQueen?"

"And you told him?" I asked in a high voice.

Wilder raised his eyebrows, which is his usual expression when he is about to fight. "Yeah. He asked, and I said it. And he promised a little gig on Wednesday in return."

Oh shit, it should be my turn to work that day.God, I really don't want to see Dean.

I threw the towel in the sink. "Where the hell is that 'worker protection law' called?"

"You two sing on stage like you do every day. I thought you two were friends. Besides, you're not an official employee here, you're just a temporary helper, and I'll pay you Salaries are not taxed."

I can't believe Wilder has such a thick skin.I've worked here longer than Jordan, and that's how he thanked me?

"Oh, so I'm not an official employee here?" I crossed my arms in front of my chest. "How do I feel like I am. I come here almost every night. I even have a schedule." Dean probably copied my schedule, too.Otherwise, it is unlikely that he will be absent tonight, because I am an extra substitute tonight, not on the schedule.

"But you still haven't signed a contract to work."

"You know, you're right." I came out from the end of the bar. "I don't work here anymore. I quit."

"Hey!" Wilder called after me.I turned and left, and Kal-El followed me.

"That's a little too extreme, don't you think?" Kal-El asked as we stepped outside and got into his Toyota.

"Yeah, it's kind of extreme, but I've had enough, you know? I've had enough of Dean McQueen's shit. He's doing it again on Wednesday, and I don't want him singing Standing behind the bar and serving. Or going on stage and singing with him, that's probably what Wilder wants me to do. I'm not signed as a bar entertainer. There's no contract that says I'm going to sing with him. Fuck off, I'll get another job. There's plenty of bars in town."

We drove home in silence.Kal-El said something encouraging as he hugged me goodbye, and I ran upstairs.

There's a note on my door.I took it off and looked: it was left by Mr. Ambers.

"No." I read the above content again, almost crying.I have been asked to move out by the end of next month.He sold the loft for a buyer to renovate.I'm leaving the place that I've called home for five years, and I didn't expect it to happen so quickly. "Hold……"

I moved inside, locked the door, and threw myself on the bed.It took me two hours to finally fall asleep.The last thing on my mind before falling asleep is: I have to crawl to Wilder's feet and beg him to give me my job back.I'm saving up for a new rental.Rent is expected to be collected in advance, and rent in Boston is by no means cheap, at least not near my friends.

***

On Tuesday morning, a giant Hershey's Kiss was delivered.It was so big it took up my entire coffee table and was carried upstairs by two couriers who left it in the doorway as soon as I opened it.This time I was alone, sitting in a chair, staring at this big lump of chocolate.this is my favourite.Eating it is as good as making love to me.This is my favorite thing to put in my mouth, probably, besides dick.I'm pretty sure I've only told Dean once about my love for "Hershey's Kiss".I don't even think he ever saw me eat it.

Is he going to keep following him like this?Once I'm on the street, it's much easier for him.Maybe not, maybe it would be easier to hide without a fixed address.

God, I would have fucked him if I knew.I should have recorded it and posted it online.This will give him a clear and loud warning.

Dean fucking McQueen.

I stood up, stretched my muscles, and tried to lift the giant chocolate, only to have it fall off the table.It turned out that it wasn't a whole piece of chocolate.Hundreds of tiny candies wrapped in silver paper rolled to the floor as its shell shattered.

"Ah—" I growled after the initial shock. "What the hell am I going to do with this?"

I kicked the candy mountain and it spread out in every corner.

That's all right, now they're all over the place.

Annoyed and frustrated at the same time, I picked up the half-empty shell and threw it across the room.More small silver nuggets flew out of it and fell into the kitchen.

"How did this happen?!" I complained to myself.

Simply awesome.I'm already going crazy.Talking to yourself like a paranoiac.For a full minute, I thought the constant knocking on the door was my imagination, until I heard Kal-El's voice calling my name through the door.

In dark hallways, his blue fluorescent contact lenses made him look like some kind of nocturnal animal.

"Are you ok?"

"You have asked several times."

"Well, you don't look well," he said as he walked in. "What are these things?"

"'Kiss of Hershey'. Hundreds of 'Kiss of Hershey'."

"Oh, Eric said Dean wrote a song about you. It's called 'Kiss' something, isn't it?"

""Tangerine Kiss"." My monotonous voice sounded a little crazy.I bumped my head into Kal-El's strong pecs. "what do I do?"

"Whatever you gotta do, bro. It's just getting crazy."

"I think I'm going crazy right now."

"You'll be fine, bro." Kal-El put his strong arms around me. "There are flowers, huh?"

"Correct."

"Do you want me to throw it away for you?"

I stepped back from his arms and looked at the beautiful pile of blue.Of all the three gifts, they are the most difficult to look at, too easy to bring back memories of that period of pain and betrayal.

"Ok."

"Okay, you put all your drawings in the elevator. I'm going to get the flowers and the... thing." He pointed to the half-spilled container of Hershey's.

"Thanks."

"Small thing."

I leaned my pile of paintings against the wall by the door.Most of them are small - easy to carry, and the price is more acceptable to pedestrians.But I usually also bring at least two large ones, in case some wealthy art lovers fancy them?This has happened a few times as well.One even bought a few smaller ones along the way.I'm not famous for it or anything, and I don't want to be.I just want to paint and live in my own way.There are no obligations, no promises, and no expectations.I feel very comfortable with that.But now I also need money.I love this loft, it's mine and I don't want to leave.Maybe the guy who bought the loft will let me keep renting it.Maybe they renovated it just to rent it out.

I called Wilder this morning and was lucky enough to keep the job because of Dean's show and he thinks it will be sold out tomorrow.But this salary is not enough for me to pay the rent that this attic is really worth in the future.Mr. Ambers was very kind to me and kept the rent very low.It wasn't his fault that the loft was sold just three days after he put it on the market.Whether or not I continue to rent this loft, I have to find a way to make more money.

As someone who always "gets everything in one go," Kal-El stuffed flowers and containers of chocolate into the elevator.

"I'll be right back." I hurriedly pulled out the money bag from the closet and tied it around the waist of my jeans.Before I left, I grabbed a few handfuls of Hershey's Kiss and put them in my bag, as well as bottles of Orange Fanta.Then we headed straight to the city center.

The place where I set up a stall is not a formal market, it's just a random gathering of some artists in the city center every Tuesday morning, and the police don't come to chase us away.In fact, the mayor kind of wants Boston to feel open and artsy, which is probably why we're left alone.I usually find a spot near the bookstore entrance, hoping to attract some art lovers.I was looking for a place close to restaurants where rich people hang out, but those places are always taken before I get there.

I placed the large paintings against the wall, and the smaller ones were displayed in a black basket, as is customary.Kal-El takes Tuesdays off from his mom's hair salon so he can drive me off like a facilitator.He even accompanied me to practice stalls, but refused to share the income.I know he would rather spend the day at home playing games, but his mother forbids him to stay at home during work hours.

It's not surprising to see people with cameras in this area, but the professional attitude of those who took pictures of me made me feel a little uncomfortable.Maybe they weren't filming me, maybe it was something that happened at the bookstore last night.Or maybe the mayor made a declaration about the area, and they just wanted to report it in the newspapers.

"Is that him?" a teenage girl whispered nearby, staring at me with round brown eyes.

"Oh my God, it's him!" another girl screamed and grabbed an older woman's sleeve.

Frowning, I saw Kal-El watching them with interest.

"Excuse me," the older woman said, looking down at me.Two little girls stood behind her, all smiling.

"Hello."

The lady looked down. "How much is this painting?" She pointed to the smallest one.

"Five dollars," Kal-El said before I could even open my mouth.

"Okay, I bought it," she said, without even taking a closer look.

After the money and painting were finished, the girls took out the pens and paper and walked away—more like jumping—come forward.

"Can we have an autograph?" they asked in unison.

What……?

"Uh, sure." I signed "Jess" in capital letters.Why is it so popular among middle school students to ask street sellers for autographs?

They gave a little squeal and thanked me.

"What the hell is going on?" I ask Kal-El, who shrugs, but doesn't look me in the eye. "These paintings were only sold for three dollars."

"When others like it, you should sit on the ground and raise the price. Anyway, she will buy it no matter how much it costs."

It's been a day of things like this.People bought my paintings, asked me for autographs, claimed to be my big fans, and then the photographers kept taking pictures, some even asked me if I was gay (girls asked, when I answered yes, they said yes scream).I ended up selling all the small ones, even the big ones, so even though I was getting tired, I was pretty happy to be making money.If I could earn that much every day, maybe I could save enough to rent a top-of-the-line apartment.I'm going to paint a lot more because I don't have many worthwhile paintings in the attic anymore.

I was painting all Wednesday until it was time to go to work.Maybe it's because I draw for the money now rather than for the inspiration that it sucks.I haven't had any inspiration lately, or maybe I have, but it's from the wrong people.But hey, if I did paint Dean's portrait, maybe I'd fetch a higher price.People will probably eat this set, but it also means I have to stare at his face all day, which I can't bear, especially when a big basket of peaches shows up on my coffee table, and I still use it. Wrapped in clear cellophane, tied with a big turquoise bow.

I'm refraining from ripping off the cellophane and eating it.When I was a kid I didn't want to eat peaches because they looked like little furry butts.But once Mom popped a slice into my mouth, I couldn't get enough of peaches.Now the cute little buttocks of these peaches are sitting in the basket, each of them is bulging and fat, full of sweet and sour juice.

Come on, why not eat it?Didn't I just drink Fanta and eat Hershey's Kiss while pretending I didn't remember who gave it to me?

I fetched a pocket knife and sat down in front of the TV.Kal-El left me his Avengers, so instead of drawing, I curled up on the couch and ate a peach, and then I headed to the bar to confront Dean.